Conversations for lovers, artists, writers, revolutionaries and other noncompliant troublemakers

Success

In the last 24 hours I’ve had an Aha! moment that represents
one of the biggest breakthroughs of my life.

I have always defined myself as a failure. This morning,
before 7:00 a.m., I became a success. Just like that, in one blinding moment of
epiphany. I lay there giggling to myself like an idiot. I’ve been doing that
all day, in fact.

Standing in the shower, I had another staggering revelation. I suddenly realized when and why I created the identity of being a failure in the first place. It happened when I was very young, before I had the language or ability to understand or explain what I was up to. All I had at that age was my heart, intuition and empathy.

Photo by Mike Wilson on Unsplash

We had a troubled family system. Bad and scary things were happening that I could not understand. My reasoning was that failing to please was Bad. Pleasing was Good. If I chose failing to please, if I flaunted it, if I accepted it, I would be Bad and others could be Good, and therefore loved and safe.

Of course, I didn’t think of it in any kind of logical or adult sense. What I did have, however, was a great ability to love that even then was unconditional, deep and tender. I loved, do you understand? Only that. Just love and the willingness to do whatever it took to protect my loved ones.

Photo by John Salvino on Unsplash

In those dim years of childhood I embraced being a failure
and forged the bars that were to keep me in that prison for 50 years. Failing
to please was Bad and terribly painful, but I was comforted by the abilities of
others to please and therefore be loved. I believed becoming a lightning rod
for displeasure shielded them.

As an adult, I had two children of my own and made exactly
the same choice. I endeavored to shield and protect them from physical and
psychological harm, no matter what it took. They could not understand, and I
could not explain my choices to onlookers because I was protecting so many
different people on different levels. I could not tell the truth. There was too
much at risk and the truth was too damaging to all of us. I was afraid of the
repercussions on those I was trying to shield.

My sense of failure was reinforced at every turn. I was told
in words how disappointing and inadequate I was, but far more powerfully, I
understood it from nonverbal communication and from the choices of those around
me. Once again, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I was doing the best
thing for those I loved with my whole heart. I didn’t much care what happened
to me if my loved ones could only be protected and happy. One day they would
understand not only my choices, but the depth of my love.

The years rolled by. The children grew up and suddenly were adults. They expressed confusion and a sense of loss because of some of my parenting choices. I explained, confident of their understanding.

I realize now my explanations sounded ridiculous, but not because I failed.

I had a lifelong reputation for being dramatic and hypersensitive, which effectively erased my credibility within the family. I had no intention of burdening my sons with old family dynamics and problems that existed long before they were born. I didn’t want to hurt or betray anyone. I didn’t want the boys to have torn loyalties or make them feel they had to choose sides.

Photo by Jason Rosewell on Unsplash

Anything I could say, calmly, neutrally and without emotion, wasn’t even loud enough to get their attention. Trying to convey the authentic truth of my experience would have sounded (I imagined) hysterical and unhinged or, even worse, made them feel they had to take care of me. Come what may, I was never going to ask my children to parent me.

They could intellectually understand my explanation about the choices I made as a parent, but they couldn’t emotionally understand, exactly the outcome I worked for all those years! To them, it just sounded like Mom, talking too much, being embarrassingly emotional and making a big deal about nothing. (She does that.)

Do you see the exquisite irony? My explanations sounded ridiculous because I had succeeded in shielding them so well they had no idea what I was talking about. That was the flip. I didn’t fail at all. I succeeded.

Can you hear the Gods laughing? I can.

When I realized the unintended consequences of my maternal
protection, it certainly caught my attention, along with changing my relationship
with my kids in deeply painful (for all of us), and, I fear, permanent ways. I
have never known such grief, but privately I chalked it all up to another
failure of mine and a grief I deserved.

My failure label stayed firmly in place, as solid a part of my identity as my blue eyes or wild hair. It never occurred to me that I could take it off.

Until yesterday. Yesterday, another loved one I have protected made it clear to me how successful I’ve been in protecting him as well. My stoicism, my unrelenting commitment to healing and understanding, my fierce independence, and most of all my love and unwillingness to be disloyal or reveal unwelcome truths that might upset others have been so successful that the truth of my experience sounds like hysterical, made-up, unkind, exaggerated nonsense.

It was the kids all over again.

This time, though, I finally got it. I finally understood that I have succeeded, not failed, in everything I wanted to do out of love for others. Every single thing! I have failed to please, yes. I’ve failed the expectations of others. I’ve failed to be perfect. I’ve failed to keep the family glued together. I’ve failed in trying to force others to be happy and healthy. I’ve failed, most miserably of all, at protecting others from themselves. But none of those failures are real. None of those things were my job or within my power in the first place. They were impossibilities, not failures.

On the other hand, I have succeeded at failing! I did manage to attract negative attention so that others were at less risk. I did carry and sometimes express the emotional burdens of those around me who couldn’t deal with their emotions. The role I chose as a scapegoat did, in a fucked-up kind of way, help keep the family functional enough that we all survived. My “failures” made others look more successful by contrast. My willingness to be the problem child, the dramatic one, helped keep my loved ones out of the line of fire, at least a little bit.

Photo by juan pablo rodriguez on Unsplash

As a parent, I succeeded. I raised two sons. They are not
perfect. I made mistakes. They have baggage to unpack like all the rest of us.
Their wounds, however, are different than mine. They were not hurt in the same
ways I was. I successfully shielded them from the bombs and grenades that
shattered me. I believe they know they are loved and worthy, and that I am
proud of them.

What I’m most proud of is my success at loving. Just that. Loving myself and loving others. Nowhere along the way have I lost my ability and willingness to love, absolutely, completely and unconditionally. I love my family of origin. I love my children. I see now we don’t always get it back, the unconditional love, respect and loyalty we lavish on others. That’s okay. Invisible love, refused love, unrecognized love and unreciprocated love is still love. It’s The Right Thing To Do. It’s the only thing to do. It’s the best I have to give.

As for myself, I feel reborn. I am not a failure. I have never been a failure. I have succeeded in loving and doing my best against all odds. I accept that others may not understand my actions and choices or believe in my love, but that’s their failure, not mine.

This day has revealed to me that every ten minutes or so I call myself a failure, no matter what I’m doing. For the first time in my life, I’ve paused to examine all those so-called failures and discovered . . . nothing. My identity as a failure is nothing more than a mindless habit. It’s my automatic apologetic response when I cook the bacon too long, don’t properly anticipate my partner’s wishes, want to go to bed early, am standing in the way (nobody ever stands in my way—it’s always me that’s in the wrong place!) or blow off doing an hour of exercise.

I have successfully mastered the art of failure. Bored now. I’m going to go be successful.

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2 thoughts on “Success”

You have come dangerously close to home again Jenny! I tried with all that I am to protect my children from learning about my childhood and the things there that changed me forever. I see so much of myself in many of your posts about childhood trauma. I love your blog! Keep writing for us all…..

Thanks, Dawn. I appreciate your comments. I know there’s a silent sisterhood out there, trying to heal, trying to understand, determined to avoid sinking into bitterness and self-destructing. My hope is that in making my own process transparent others will know they’re not alone.